


in the woods somewhere

by commandercosmo



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Reader-Insert, gender neutral reader, werewolf reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandercosmo/pseuds/commandercosmo
Summary: Being a werewolf in the 1920s isn't easy. You meet someone post-transformation who wants to help.
Relationships: Newt Scamander/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 135





	in the woods somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blurryjace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurryjace/gifts).



> I wrote this from my perspective so it was written with someone masculine in mind BUT there's no gendered pronouns so go wild my friend!!!!! 
> 
> Thank you Jace for leaving me messages to wake up to about Newt so I could be inspired to write this, I love you!
> 
> Finals week is almost over so I have new inspiration and wrote this in one sitting so my bad if there's any errors

He finds you in a forest.

You’d been coming here for a while. A safe place, away from people. You remember to come in the height of your fever, desperate not to hurt anyone. You’d realized, not soon after the transformations began, that you could hurt people. You didn’t want to. If you left, and there was no one around, you’d maybe hurt some wildlife -- a rabbit, a deer, but never a person. 

You had a life. Family, friends. They loved you, they did, but they didn’t  _ know _ you -- not for the last few years. They worried, yes, when they saw you getting ill so often, but no matter what they did, they couldn’t do much besides comfort you as the fever came like clockwork.  _ Exactly _ like clockwork. You were surprised, in all this time, that no one had figured it out -- but, you supposed, people didn’t want to see what could hurt them. They’d rather stay blissfully unaware than see things as they were.

Your friends seemed a distant dream now, as you’re laying in the nook of a tree on the forest floor. Your clothes are in tatters, but you’re still wearing them, the fabric laying across your shaking form. Above you is a layer of green, the early morning sky barely visible through the trees. For a moment you watch the oranges and yellows of the sunrise, your shaking breath billowing in clouds in front of you. 

The cold air is harsh on your skin, making you shiver, but you’re grateful. Feeling the cold means you’re still alive -- it means you’re  _ human _ for the time being. Your form on the full moon runs so warm that it’s stifling, and you hardly feel the cold night air as your paws trample the soft earth in search of your next meal.

You shudder again, trying not to think of your escapades. This proves difficult, however, when you look at your hands: your nails are jagged, caked with dirt and blood. You stare at them for a moment, watching them shake -- in anger? Fear? Disgust? -- before curling your fingers into fists and shoving them under your arms, away from sight. You could feel your nails cutting into your already raw palms, but that didn’t matter. You had to feel something --  _ anything --  _ that proved you weren’t a monster.

“Hello,” you hear a soft voice from a few trees away. You jump -- you hadn’t heard anything, which was worrying, as the terrain was covered in leaves and twigs. You were so out of sorts that you’d forgotten to be aware of your surroundings. You’d left your wand at home, you always did when you knew you’d transform, but now you wished you hadn’t. 

“Wh,” you croak, your voice broken, your vocal chords still settling into their change. You become distinctly aware of the tears that have been streaming down your face, leaving warm trails down your cheeks. You don’t know what to say. You’d never been confronted before, not like this, your hair a mess, your clothes destroyed, in the middle of the woods. You want to scream, to run, to make sure your one-person audience doesn’t hurt you or cry out, but instead what comes out is “ _ Please.” _

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the voice says, and now that you’re able to pay attention, it sounds… soft. Masculine. Your eyes dart to the source; he’s half-way concealed himself behind a tree, his hands up, his eyes not quite meeting yours. His head is slightly bowed and it appears he’s trying to make himself seem smaller than he is, though with his tall frame it’s a little difficult.

You should be scared. Someone is watching you now, in your state, and while your friends and family might be blind to your condition, it would be kind of difficult to ignore all the signs when you’re like this. You should be worried for your life, trying to tell him it’s not what it seems, but instead you feel the overwhelming urge to trust this man. 

“I want to help you,” the man says and slowly steps forward once he realizes you’re not going to lash out. You realize suddenly what he’s doing -- he’s trying to make himself seem like he isn’t a threat. Some part of you is incensed at this, because you’re  _ not _ a predator, but another much stronger part of you finds it endearing. 

“H… help? How?” You finally get out, and your teeth start to chatter. The cold starts to hit you now -- you’ve been out in the cold all night, and while you’ve mostly been in your animal state, your human form is not cut out for the harsh winter morning air. 

The man pauses. It seems like he hadn’t thought he’d get this far. He ponders for a moment, his eyes flickering here and there, looking as though he was inspecting each leaf and pine needle on the ground below him. His eyes trail up to you, at last, and he seems to notice you’re shivering.

“You’re cold,” he says, and you bite back a retort.  _ Yeah, you’re a genius.  _ You hold it in, though, because you  _ really _ don’t know what to do with yourself. You’re usually back in town before morning, darting home, careful to replace the frost where your footprints have been in your neighborhood, but at this time of day when the sun is almost out… anyone could see you. 

The man in front of you is shedding his coat. 

“No, please, it’s all right, I--” You stop yourself as he holds it out for you at arm’s length. 

“It’s all right,” he says, “I’ve got another in my case.” For the first time, you notice a battered brown case a few feet away, near the tree he was behind when he first drew your attention to him. 

He doesn’t move to hand it to you, leaving it at arm’s length, his other arm still up so you can see he’s unarmed and not trying to trick you. You’re grateful for this, you are, but you worry that you won’t be able to stand. It’s irrational, but you don’t want to seem weak in front of him. The cold really is starting to get the better of you, though, so you try your best to stand. 

Your legs are shaky. You feel the tenderness of your muscles, sore from overuse and the harshness of the transformation. You don’t crumple, though, and you’re grateful for that. Your feet are bare, and you imagine you lost your shoes somewhere in the forest. You weren’t particularly attached to them, but you’d sure appreciate them now, as the frost crunches underneath your feet. 

You grasp the jacket with a shaky hand, and he lets go as soon as you have a grip on it, lifting his hand once more and taking a step away. He’s taking every precaution to ensure you don’t think he’s dangerous, and it’s a little bit over the top, you think, but you’re grateful. You try to smile at him, feeling cracks on your lips, before you shrug the coat on.

It’s still warm. It very nearly touches the forest floor, though you’re sure on him it’s not quite as long. Its weight is comforting, its warmth spreading through your figure slowly. 

“There’s some bread in the left inner pocket,” he says, his hands now lowering slowly, his fingers idly fiddling as he watches you. “It’s not much, but it’s -- it’s food.”

You open your eyes, grateful, and your hand runs along the lining of the jacket until you find the lip of a pocket. You slip your hand inside, expecting to be met with food, and instead you receive a small nip on one of your fingers.

“Ouch!” You say reflexively, quickly withdrawing your hand. No new blood, it seems, so it was just a warning. 

“Oh!” the man exclaims. “Sorry. I meant the right.” He looks genuinely apologetic, and he murmurs something under his breath that sounds like “ _ Pickett.” _

You give him a hesitant smile and reach instead for the other pocket. There’s a small chunk of bread there, as he’d said, and it’s slightly stale, but he’s right -- it’s food. You’re caught up in eating for a moment before you realize -- people don’t just carry bread in their pockets. He must’ve  _ known _ you were going to be out here. He seemed far too prepared for this to have been an accident.

“How did you--” you say through a mouthful before remembering your manners. You chew and swallow before continuing. “How did you know I’d be here?”

The man smiles awkwardly, looking again at spots around you, but not directly at you. “Um, you see-- well,” he starts, and again you find him endearing. “I-- I look after creatures, you see, and I’ve been noticing things.”

  
“Things?” You said, bristling.  _ Creatures, _ he’d said. You had no reason to distrust this man, you knew, but the use of the word put you on edge.

“Yes,” he said, seemingly gaining confidence. “Things that don’t line up with the usual wildlife. You know, bigger paw prints. You can tell a lot just from prints. People just... don’t tend to look.” 

There’s a lump in your throat now. What did he know? What was he going to do? Your…  _ kind _ wasn’t generally well received by the rest of the community.

When he realizes you’re not going to respond, he continues. “Um-- Well, I’ve been seeing prints for a while now, and I was keeping tabs on them, you see, and… they’re not consistent. I mean, they’re only there once a month. It was sporadic. I didn’t understand at first, but then I realized.” He pauses for a moment, shifting from foot to foot as he tries to decide how to continue. “The moon,” he says finally. “The full moon.”

“What,” you start again, and your voice cracks. You clear your throat. “What… does that have to do with me?” It’s a hollow question, you know this, and your defeated delivery doesn’t really leave room for doubt. He knows what you are --  _ you _ know he knows what you are. 

“You’re a werewolf,” he says bluntly. The word stings. You know what you are, how could you  _ not  _ know what you are, but you’d never heard anyone say it to you. The time has come, and you thought you’d have a little more fight in you.  _ Someone’s discovered you! _ Your brain shouts.  _ He knows what you are! Run! Do something!  _ But instead you just stand, watching him, wearing his blue coat.

There’s a considerable silence between you. The only sounds are the birds chirping, squirrels foraging, the forest waking up. You’re shaking again, not because of the cold -- but because you’ve realized it’s likely your time is up. If he wanted to do something to you, though, why draw it out? Why act like he’s helping you? 

“What are you going to do to me?” You manage, your voice small, your breath billowing out in front of you.

The man looks affonted. “ _ Do?” _ He asks, finally looking directly at you, his eyebrows knitted together. His face is smattered with freckles. “What do you mean  _ do? _ I told you, I want to help you.”

“You can’t,” you say, your voice cracking. You feel hot tears stream from your eyes again. “You can’t help me. You can’t want to help me. You know what I am.” Your legs give out now, and you’re kneeling on the ground, twigs poking your skin. 

“Yes,” he says, “yes, I know what you are. And I know it’s not your fault.” He lowers himself to the ground, closer to you now, close enough that you know you could count his freckles if you tried. 

“I want to help you,” he repeats, “in any way that I can. I want to understand. That’s all.” 

You look up at him through teary eyes, and he looks at you directly. His eyes are a clear blue, and they’re beseeching you to say yes, to let him help, to trust him. 

He seems to surprise himself when he wipes away some of your tears with his thumb. It comes away slightly dirty, and for the first time you imagine what a mess you must look. You flush as he pulls his hand away. 

You look at him for a moment more, searching his eyes and face as he watches you. There’s something you see, something unplaceable, that makes you want to trust him. You nod minutely, and his face breaks out in a brilliant smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as the tension leaves his shoulders.  _ Oh, _ you think.  _ He’s cute. _

“I’m Newt,” he says softly, almost awkwardly as he realizes he hasn’t introduced himself. “Newt Scamander.” 

You sniff and give him a watery smile in return, introducing yourself with a shaky laugh. He stands and offers you a hand. You know he can’t fix the transformations -- nothing can. They’re painful, and the fever is almost unbearable, but he makes you want to  _ try _ . To believe that there is something that can be done.

You take his hand. 

“Come on,” he says, helping you up. “I have a place where you can clean up.”


End file.
